


Herding Cows

by ember_alda



Series: Realms of Influence [16]
Category: Katekyou Hitman Reborn!
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Angst, Drama, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-19
Updated: 2012-03-19
Packaged: 2017-11-02 05:42:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,681
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/365569
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ember_alda/pseuds/ember_alda
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Yamamoto suddenly gives up and retires from mafia life to live domestically, no one knowing why. Squalo comes to confront him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Herding Cows

“Are you going to see some family?”

If there ever were anything Squalo hated more than people who asked him questions twice, it was _domesticity_. He shrugged his shoulder irritably in reply to the kindly woman on the train collecting his ticket. 

“ _No_.” 

After being horribly unsatisfied with the abrupt surprise on her face, he turned back to look out at the window. They were passing _fields_ for fucks sake, with little wooden houses dotting across a verdant horizon under the beating of a late summer sun. It was nauseating just to look at something so cliché and homely. He doesn’t understand why anyone would subject themselves to this voluntarily. The pastoral scene flicking by in blurs of green and gold and brown was too warm, too soft, and somehow exactly what Squalo could imagine the brat enjoying.

There was no accounting for taste, he supposed. Scowlingly, he looks down at the card in his lap, a small folded square of cream paper with lazily scrawled ink, the sloppy ends of the roman characters indicating no hesitation and a simple ease with which the words were put down. Months of waiting for explanations and finally, finally the reply was, “Come see for yourself, the grapes are ripe.”

He doesn’t understand that simple sentence; so many things he couldn’t understand. Looking down at the simple note, somehow emanating rural content, he wonders what the hell was going on through Yamamoto’s head for the hundredth time. Years had rolled over the kid and he’d bowed with grace to the fact that baseball could not longer be his number one slot. Squalo had seen that acceptance in every move, in the cut of his blade in unremitting strokes to kill, in his calm, unmoving stature, in the gaze he gives his boss, the same gaze Squalo knew mirrored his own.

Then _this_. This note, this disappearance from the Tenth’s side, running off into the hinterlands of Italy without an explanation as if everything he’d dedicated himself to had evaporated into nothing. What little Squalo knew about him (they weren’t _friends_ certainly), had been blown out of the water. If anything, he would have said Yamamoto was the most dedicated Guardian of them all, even just in character, but clearly he knew nothing of the man anymore.

It was three hours that passed, and looking at the ripening crops across the land, the wrinkles between Squalo’s brows only grows.

-0-

He arrives at the end of a small farming pasture. Dairy cows dotted the horizon line, sparse and content, standing lazily in the fields. In front of him was a quaint little house, the outside door varnished in natural wood grain with a low lying roof of terra cotta brown. Potted flowers dotted the doorstep oddly, the mismatched arrangement showing it was of a homegrown garden variety. The door sweeps open before he has time to knock on this disgusting domesticity.

“Hey, Squalo! I’m glad you came so early, you’ll have time to eat lunch with Marcella and me. There’s some fresh cheese today.”

When he’s greeted by that warm affection and a laughing attempt at an open armed hug he’s not relived. He’s stunned, temporarily, at this blatant transformation. The quiet, dark cut to Yamamoto’s eyes are gone, the deceptively slouched and fatigued stance is humming with energy instead. His shirt is too loose to be practical in a fight, and his mouth isn’t flexed into a small quirk of a smile that looks like it’s about to rip apart in a half bitter laugh.

It’s so boggling how one man could fluctuate so frequently. Even knowing Yamamoto, it’s hard to comprehend this man, who somehow in the span of three months, had flipped himself so completely. Somehow it’s actually frightening to see this change, as if Yamamoto had turned into a perfect stranger over this span of time, and Squalo wonders to himself that Tsuna must indeed be some sort of miracle Christ figure to send away a desperate, hopeless man and come out with _this_.

“Get the fuck off me, you over affectionate freak.”

There’s only another laugh at the uncomfortable shrug that displaces the younger man’s arm from around Squalo’s shoulder.

“I’m glad you came. I wasn’t sure if you would or not.” 

The way Yamamoto’s eyes shifted to the side, in quiet self-admonishment simply said to Squalo that he wasn’t sure if he would come because he knew Squalo would be pissed and confused as hell. It was, however, something of depth. For the first time, in that flicker of self-reflection, he sees a glimmer of the path that changed his younger counterpart.

Squalo shoves his duffel bag into the brat’s arms and stomps through the door, flinging down the case with his sword right at the threshold. “This better be some damn good cheese.”

A familiar smile brushes Yamamoto’s lips. “I can only reserve the best for you.”

-0-

Two days go by with little change before the brat takes him driving out on the country roads. Yamamoto points out things on their scenic route through the pastures, locating his neighbors and anecdotes on little things that have happened on those farms. Squalo’s perched feet across the windshield of the front seat shift languidly in irritation, the slow pace of the day and their conversation cutting into him.

“And there’s the place my foot got trapped in a rabbit warren on Forenza’s land when I was helping them set up their fence.”

“How much longer are you going to prattle on? We’re not even fucking going anywhere, are we?”

It doesn’t seem to faze Yamamoto at all. He smiles while looking straight out the front shield, cautiously and leisurely perusing the road. “Sorry, I guess it would be boring just to hear me talk. What about you, Squalo? What’s been going on?”

Between the two of them it was hopeless to make a conversation. Squalo liked the sound of his own voice more but somehow Yamamoto ended up talking more than anyone he knew. They were delegated portions to listen and then segregated their rants. At least that hadn’t changed between them.

“Nothing.” That he would care about, not anymore. Silence heaped in the car, slowly muffling the brightness with which the younger man tried to start out with. The stifling discomfort in the car rose shortly into a peak, before it was demolished. A small, knowing edge crept into Yamamoto’s voice.

“There must be something you want to tell me.”

Squalo only frowns more openly, jacking down the window with force and shoving his foot further against the dashboard with unneeded force. His hand fiddles with the lock as if contemplating opening the tiny door and rolling out onto the road in escape from the inanity.

“Some dickwad tried to poison the boss. Not that it mattered, after forty eight hours it all burned out of his system. He was so fucking pissed someone dared to do it the flames kept burning in his system even though he was unconscious. Yeah, and Levi grew a rats ass on the top of his lip, it makes him look like a circus freak. Hibari came and dropped off a letter from the Tenth and I killed a bunch of Tyr’s disciples who were furious with me. Everyone on your side seems to be fine, that stupid boss of yours kept that Cloud Guardian in line when he came to the Varia Mansion.”

“Sounds like a lot has happened. Tsuna must be doing well, keeping everyone safe.” There’s a warm nostalgia in his tone, and it boils in Squalo’s veins in all the wrong ways. He’s talking already like he wasn’t a part of that, like his boss was just some casual aside, and it pisses him the fuck off that something so important was thrown away like nothing. 

He doesn’t understand this stranger by his side, he wants to shake out the old Yamamoto with steel in his grip and slice the answers from his throat, but if anything else Squalo still held onto it was the fact that you could never get anything meaningful from Yamamoto by force. The younger man had an uncanny ability to mask anything in battle, so instead he pours out his words as viciously as possible, acid dripping from his voice as he grins in a wide, sharp smile.

“He made everyone throw the fucking rings away. Want to know why your precious Tenth did that?” And hadn’t he wanted to be there when it did?

There’s a short pause that seems to stretch, odd and long between them, the cruel cut of his words leaving a small silence in their space before the vacuum is filled again with a smooth, laughing voice that tones the conversation back to nothing.

“Lets go back and get some lunch.”

-0-

The days pile on no differently. Yamamoto goes about his inane business doing household chores, milking the cows on Marcella’s pasture, and cooking their homely meals while Squalo is a protrusive jag, standing silver and sharp where ever the younger man goes. Domestic conversation is cut, every so often, by the acid bite of unknown information, dropped casually in a verbal fight that goes nowhere.

Yamamoto had become an expert on dodging, that much was obvious.

It frustrates him until he can’t handle it anymore, one day. Against his arm grinds the hard resistance of metal strapped to his wrist, and wearing his uniform Squalo feels the urging need to attack that unprotected backside in the shed. His muscles tighten and sweep the blade with unchecked force against that infuriating brat so fast the whistle of the wind is just an illusion.

Despite the fact the Yamamoto must know that his spine was about to be cleaved in two, he doesn’t turn around. The linen clad back only shifts as his arm moves to grab a pail hanging off the side of a work table. 

“Hey, could you help me grab the other one? I have to take the stool under my arm and it’s awkward.”

The thin edge steel is poised just a hair above the cloth of Yamamoto’s shirt, paused from the words that came out just in time to stop Squalo’s finishing move. The corners of his eyes harden even more, and his wrist is trembling with force trying not to cut off the brat’s head. Slowly, he puts his sword down. Watching the unapologetic calm of this backside and Yamamoto’s pure refusal to participate corners him. He hadn’t come here to kill him, as much as the sight of a weakened opponent makes his arms tremble with the fight. 

“Don’t be ridiculous. Carry your own shit.”

Soon enough the sound of stomping feet leaving for the door echo in the shed. Yamamoto finally decides to turn around and grabs the other pail. Basked by the warm rays creaking through the wedges of the shed walls, he stares listlessly at his callused hands, worn from work in all the right places, still carrying some in all the wrong ones, feeling something painful tightening in his chest.

-0-

He supposed there was only so long he could stretch out this lazy pace. Squalo was not a patient man by any means, and Yamamoto had played on his time for as long as he could. Words came reluctantly to him anyway. For as much as Yamamoto enjoyed conversation, he believed that actions were the best explanation in the end, just like Squalo- but this was something that could not be performed.

There was a time, after his father died, he leaned into that habit so hard he barely spoke of anything at all. It had been a bitter trail of hit after hit, of cleaning away thoughts with as much flame and calm, adrenalin and careless, purposeless strokes of his sword as he could. He had become robotic in his motions, he’d emptied himself out with only the most occasional smile for Tsuna, because Tsuna deserved to be smiled at. 

It became tiring, soon enough. It tired him to hold his sword, but his grip on the hilt wouldn’t let go. His mind numbed at the thought of leaving, but his mind numbed at the thought of staying only to break down, so he held on through every job, through every mission. He wrapped himself tighter and tighter into the Shigure Kintoki until he felt as if it had turned into a nonsense word from overuse.

It became glued to his hand, a dead weight that became a tool for forgetfulness, and each time his head fell against a pillow it awoke only to the sword still clutched against him.

There had been a time, after his father died, that Yamamoto wasn’t a living person. That his hand would move to kill and it would only pause to wipe off the blood before seeking another throat. Missions had become nothing to him but tools for finding more and more Millfiore members to kill in the mechanical strokes of an executioner, and Tsuna was forced to cut him away before he left on his own. 

For all the hardship that Squalo had in life, for however strong Squalo was to overcome what was in his way, Yamamoto didn’t think the other man knew what it was like to lose something so very much like his past. His dad- without him, there was no Namimori, there was no baseball, there were no fourteen years before Tsuna, there was nothing for Yamamoto to grip onto in himself.

There were no actions to explain this. Squalo had to hear it in words to fully know, but Yamamoto hated to confess something so pitifully weak, so instead he knocked on the worn whitewash of the bedroom door, and opened it smiling at a scowling man.

“Want to come down for some breakfast?”

-0-

The clink of a small, plain, cream ceramic set being taken out floods the early morning of the kitchen. Squalo has his feet propped out, slouched low in an uncomfortably bare chair, ready to trip any intruder who came through the door. 

Grinding sounds from the coffee maker jolt to a stop, and Yamamoto takes the mug from out the drip, settling it down onto the table next to his metal one full of fresh milk, slowly but surely setting up their little breakfast nook.

“I know you don’t like sugar so I won’t even try to take it out. Marcella keeps it ridiculously high on the shelf. Sometimes I wonder how she-”

“I could kill you right now.”

The creamer is put down with calm ease.

“But you’re not going to.”

“What, exactly _what_ about everything I told you _don’t you get_? Do you think your little vacation is going to change something?! That shit with your father-”

“It isn’t about him, at least not anymore. Tsuna doesn’t need me. I’m useless.”

“Of course you damn are, fucking look at you now. I gave this to you, you’ve frozen time with your fucking sword, defeated armies, and when I fucking die you’re going to be the one holding that thing above my grave, claiming the title of best, because I don’t choose people who are _trash_. I don’t care if you don’t want it, it’s your inheritance.”

There’s a smallest wince at that word, where Yamamoto looks down at his hands. It wasn’t like Squalo to pull his punches, and he knew full well bringing Tsuyoshi into it would cut him closest. He knew Squalo needed to know how it was possible to give up something that had become his soul, but it was hard to explain how it wasn’t just moves and techniques that comprised the body of his sword.

“You know how sometimes you can find those moments in a job? I’m not saying I didn’t enjoy what you gave me, but swordsmanship was something I needed, it was my duty to Tsuna. Your swordsmanship to you was baseball to me. It’s not the same, not between us.”

Somehow Squalo could hear the words pouring out of Yamamoto’s mouth, and even logically this obvious confession had merit, but no, he _didn’t_ understand. Months and _years_ it took him to pick up every nuance to his blade and this kid was born to it with genius beyond counting. All it took Yamamoto was a month to train, and Squalo was left defeated. He ripped everything away from Tyr with sheer guts and force of will and thousands of skills at his side, and what did the kid do? Defeat him with eight. Yet even trying to shove this down Yamamoto’s ungrateful throat, he was still resisted. How did it come to pass that what was so exhilarating for him, was nothing but Yamamoto’s passing fancy? He had the keys to become great, and instead he passes it by out of _guilt_.

Squalo didn’t accept defeat. The swordsman was a man who would grind your head into the truth until you bled. Squalo’s persistence in pursuing this man, who even though gave into playing an assassin, still wasn’t one, hadn’t paid off after all this time.

“No. It isn’t the same. Do you know why? Because you still don’t get it, you talk about it like it’s a job, like after the long day’s over, you can go back to herding your fucking cows or whatever the hell it is you want, but you can’t. It’s already changed you, it doesn’t matter if it didn’t start off as your life, it doesn’t matter if you can’t think of it as the dream, it’s fucking real now. Even if you try and throw it away, it won’t leave you.”

He hears a long, nostalgic sigh blow out from across the table.Yamamoto puts up his elbows again on the worn wooden surface, the rolled sleeves slowly coming down in a white shirt too big for a suit. A small tin mug filled with milk stands between them like a homely banner in this simple cottage as Yamamoto glances back from his gaze at the window outside. A small, tired laugh comes out, somehow with the good natured lines across his eyes still coming through.

“It’s ok, Squalo. I know it can’t be fixed. I’ve already decided this is what I’ll be. I knew it was the only choice the day Tsuna took his place, that I couldn’t keep sitting it out on the sidelines. He already gave up Kyoko to do what he had to, and I knew if _he_ couldn’t even keep his only real chance at love, I couldn’t keep everything either. Sometimes, you just need a break from yourself. Haha, I’m not wired the same way you are Squalo.”

There’s a quiet, hard swallow as Yamamoto pauses, turning his face again to look outside. Squalo isn’t sure what it is in that gaze but it’s so tight and low he’s almost afraid Yamamoto was going to break himself from trying to keep whatever it is in.

“I…just couldn’t hold the sword any longer. I wasn’t fit for the Shigure Souen style any more, so I had to leave. I was burning myself away, killing everything to try and find one man who most likely I’ll never find. Sooner or later, I would have left on my own, defecting missions to hunt down all the petty little instruments of the Giglio Neri and the Millefiore and the family would have had to disown me. I really hated Tsuna at that time for making me go, but I can see now he was right. He always did know what was best.”

It’s in Squalo’s throat to ask, to command him to come back, but it wasn’t easy on a swordsman when he admits he once couldn’t handle the blade. Yamamoto had his pride, as well as an obligation to his style as its only successor, as a guardian to his boss, and most damning of all, as a son to his father- and he’d failed. Squalo finds himself swallowing the goad back, and he’s furious with himself that he can’t do it, he can’t ask him, he can’t tell him ‘take up the fucking sword and use it because one day, you’ll do things I couldn’t even do’.

“I’m really angry at you, you know. I’m fucking furious.”

An oddly choked laugh comes out, Yamamoto laying his hand down on the table while he shakes his head smiling.

“I’m glad. I’m glad someone is because I’m fucking furious with myself too. My hand…just won’t move. I’m sorry. I’m sorry that I don’t know if I pick it up again I’ll ever feel what I felt that first time, in the ring battle.”

The silence of a soft breeze filters in, bringing the scent of grass to their homely table. There are no more words left to explain anything, and even if Squalo still doesn’t quite know why this happened, there’s nothing he can do about it.

Yamamoto had reached the end of the road of his katana, and Squalo couldn’t force himself to extend it for him.

“Brat…”

A whole diary’s worth of meaning was held in the simple word. So, this was it. He’d poured all he could into the kid, and this is where it went; and no, he supposed he didn’t regret putting all his eggs into one basket. But for one moment, and one moment alone a choking, bitter burn flooded the pit of his stomach and Squalo hated Byakuran with unrelenting passion for taking this away from him, an achievement beyond himself.

“I’m going back tomorrow.”

“Yeah. I know. Thanks for coming.” And those words sounded a lot like, ‘thanks for caring”, but Squalo didn’t care to read into them that far. “Come visit me again, sometime.”

“Whatever. I thought we were going to eat fucking breakfast.”

The small, warm laugh lines crinkle again as Yamamoto takes himself up from the table laughingly as he gets eggs out of the refrigerator.

“I’ll try and not disappoint you.”

 

THE END

**Author's Note:**

> So that's the end. Kinda depressing, I guess...and what actually brings Yamamoto back is that Tsuna dies. 
> 
> I had the idea that Tsuna sent him away because he didn't want Yamamoto to be there when he faked his own death, because it would have been like, right after his dad died and I don't think Yamamoto could take that well. So yeah, I messed with the timeline a little.


End file.
